


Drinking Games

by bibliosexual



Series: Tumblr fic [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: College, Drinking Games, First Kiss, M/M, Pillow Fights, Pining, Roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 18:18:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4359350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliosexual/pseuds/bibliosexual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The day Jennifer dumps Derek very publicly in Starbucks, he goes back to the apartment and gets very drunk.</p><p>Stiles gets drunk with him, in brotherly solidarity. He would bet one hundred dollars and his vintage Elvis poster that Derek’s never been drunk before. No way is he leaving Derek to do it on his own.</p><p>Also, he may be just a tad bit curious what Derek is like when he’s not entirely sober.</p><p>There’s also the very important consideration that if Stiles doesn’t get wasted right now, he’s going to do something even stupider, like go murder somebody. Somebody whose name starts with "J" and ends with "ennifer" and who dumped Derek. Who even <em>does</em> that? It’s <em>Derek</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drinking Games

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of a thing where I write regularly now, like a responsible writer. (We'll see how long that lasts...)
> 
> Slight potential dub-con warning in this fic; you can find spoilery details of that in the end notes. I think that's all I need to warn for; let me know if not.

The day Jennifer dumps Derek very publicly in Starbucks, he goes back to the apartment and gets very drunk.

Stiles gets drunk with him, in brotherly solidarity. He would bet one hundred dollars and his vintage Elvis poster that Derek’s never been drunk before. No way is he leaving Derek to do it on his own.

Also, he may be just a tad bit curious what Derek is like when he’s not entirely sober.

There’s also the very important consideration that if Stiles doesn’t get wasted right now, he’s going to do something even stupider, like go murder somebody. Somebody whose name starts with  _J_  and ends with  _ennifer_ and who dumped Derek. Who even does that? It’s  _Derek_. Derek, who has adorable bunny teeth and wears thumbhole sweaters and can recite Pablo Neruda in the original Spanish and gives foot rubs so good they make Stiles forget his own name. Derek who volunteers at the no-kill shelter with Scott twice a week even though he’s up to his neck in work for his Master’s. Derek who smiles shyly and blushes to the tips of his dorky stick-out ears when Stiles compliments him. Anyone would have to be crazy to dump Derek. Also heartless, and dumb, and evil, probably.

But murder is probably off the table, so Stiles gets drunk. He should get some kind of medal for his self-restraint.

They start out watching  _Die Hard_ , doing shots of the peach schnapps left over from Derek’s birthday party every time something explodes. (Stiles’ idea.) Derek complains it’s like drinking syrup but keeps going anyway.

Eventually the rules devolve into a shot every time there’s blood or screaming or guns, Stiles isn’t picky, and Derek is finally starting to sink down into the couch, mouth relaxing into something not-quite-a-smile. Smile-adjacent. Except no, that’s not right, is it? Mouths don’t  _relax_ into smiles because it takes more muscles to smile than to frown. Stiles informs Derek of this, and Derek buries his face in Stiles’ shoulder and snorts. The weight of his forehead feels really nice on Stiles’ collarbone.

And then they’re just doing shots whenever something makes them laugh, which is everything, Bruce Willis shooting things with his Very Serious Face, Derek raising his creepy crawly eyebrows, the swishy-swoshy feeling of Stiles’ stomach. Derek looks  _amazing_ when he laughs, how did Stiles not know this? And then they’re playing Mario Kart and Stiles doesn’t quite remember how that happened but he’ll take it.

Somewhere along the way Mario Kart turns into eating cold pizza straight from the fridge, which turns into Stiles poking Derek’s ridiculous arm muscles, which turns into a pushup competition that Stiles loses in about ten seconds. But it’s okay because he totally redeems himself when the pillow fight starts. The ugly satin throw pillows Derek’s girlfriend Whatshername bought him at IKEA make it ten times better. At least, until they knock over the table lamp.

For a few seconds they just stare at the broken pieces, and then Stiles starts to laugh.

“It’s really not funny,” Derek tells him, but he’s a lying liar who lies because he’s totally laughing, too. Cute snorting little laughs that Stiles would not have expected in a thousand years. And wow, okay, hello there, unexpectedly intense desire to hug Derek Hale.

Stiles is just barely sober enough not to do it.

God, he needs more alcohol.

It seems like a good idea to just avoid the area of the floor where the shattered lamp is, which means no leaving the living room, which means blanket fort time, obviously.

It’s probably the world’s saggiest blanket fort, but that just adds a certain charm. It’s practically a hobbit-hole, and who doesn’t love hobbit-holes?

Stiles crawls in after Derek. There’s really no room to sit up so he has to lie down, and there’s nowhere to lie down but on top of Derek. Derek just oomphs and puts his warm hands on Stiles’ back. For someone so muscly, he feels really nice to lie on.

Especially when he runs his palms up the shivery bumps of Stiles’ spine and down again, bunching Stiles’ T-shirt, and Stiles gets to smell Derek’s hair, and Derek cups Stiles’ jaw and kisses him. First on the nose and then the chin. It’s just the lightest brush of lips, more tickly than anything else.

“Love you too, dude,” Stiles grins, and pats Derek’s cheek.

“Where’s’ur face?” Derek mumbles. It’s kinda dark in their fort. Stiles should’ve installed a skylight. He gets distracted for a while pondering the logistics of this, until he feels Derek’s sandpapery chin brush the side of his neck.

“You’re prickly,” Stiles thinks he says. “Like a cactus. A cute cuddly cactus.”

“You’re a cactus,” Derek retorts, and kisses him again, bull’s-eye this time, sweetened with peach schnapps.

There’s some small, muddled part of Stiles’ brain going, “ _Whoa there, what are you doing?_ ” but that part of his brain is stupid and Stiles elects to ignore it. He kisses back. And keeps kissing, until his lips feel slippery and swollen and awesome, and then until his lips don’t feel like anything at all.

He can just barely see that Derek is smiling dopily. Good. He should always be this happy.

Stiles wants to keep looking at him, but everything is spinning: the room, the planet, the universe, everything except where his body’s grounded by Derek’s. Stiles is pretty sure he’s going to float off into space if they stop touching right now. So instead, he burrows down, tucks his nose under Derek’s chin, and falls fast asleep.

*

Stiles groans and squints open his eyes. Everything is stupidly bright, and the Mario Kart menu is looping in the background at a hellish volume. He’s lying on the floor, twisted in what feels like thirty blankets and drooling on Derek’s unfairly muscled shoulder. And, oh god, he’s got his fingers tucked just under the waistband of Derek’s sweatpants, which is definitely not a place his fingers are supposed to go.

All of this is capital N capital G  _Not Good_.

But then it gets worse, because of course it does. As soon as Stiles starts trying to move, Derek’s eyes flutter open like some kind of Disney princess, and when he tilts his head, it’s just enough to reveal a row of vivid hickeys. Hickeys apparently made by Stiles’ mouth. Well. There goes Stiles’ last hope that maybe they could pretend none of this ever happened.

He groans again and buries his face in Derek’s chest. That seems preferable to looking Derek in the eye ever again. “Fuck, you’re awake.”

“Yeah,” Derek says cautiously from beneath him.

“And we made out,” Stiles’ mouth says before his hungover brain can catch up. “Like, a lot–”

“I think this is a discussion that calls for coffee,” Derek interrupts, which is probably Derek-speak for ‘You’re making me really uncomfortable and I want to get away from you but I’m too nice to tell you.’

“Yeah, okay,” Stiles says. He can take a hint.

It only takes him two tries to wobble to his feet and kick away the blankets. Derek just continues to lie there staring blankly at the ceiling, like an opossum. It’s possible he feels as awfully hungover as Stiles.

Stiles goes into his bedroom and gets his battered brown suitcase down from the top shelf of the closet. He doesn’t bother to be neat, just upends his sock drawer and swipes up all his desk clutter and gathers an armful of sneakers and dumps everything on the bed.

He can be packed and out of here by lunchtime, probably. Scott can come pick him up, and then Stiles will go–somewhere. Not to Scott’s dorm, because where would Scott put him? And not to a motel, because where would Stiles get the money? It’s not like he could even afford to live here. The only reason he got the spare room is that Derek already knew him from high school and was willing to charge him next to nothing for it. Derek’s always been nice like that.

Derek’s going to be nice about this too, no doubt, if Stiles lets him. But Stiles can’t do that to him. He’ll clean up the mess in the living room, and he’ll pack up all the evidence that he ever lived here, and he’ll go away, and Derek will never have to think about his dirtbag ex-friend Stiles ever again.

Stiles is holding the vintage comic book Derek gave him for Christmas and trying not to cry when Derek finally appears in the doorway. His eyebrows are furrowed like he’s working out a complicated puzzle in his head, and he’s looking soft and sleep-ruffled in one of his old-man cardigans.

“The coffee’s ready …” he starts, and then he seems to take in the state of Stiles’ room. “What– what are you doing?”

Stiles sighs and tucks the comic book into the outside pocket of his suitcase. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“But,” Derek says. He drops his hands to his sides and looks a little lost. “Why?”

Stiles can’t believe Derek’s going to make him spell it out. “Because I screwed up! I’m so sleazy and I, like,  _preyed_ on you.”

“No you didn’t,” Derek says immediately, probably because he doesn’t want to make Stiles feel bad.

“Uh, yeah? I got you drunk and, and did stuff to you–”

“You were drunk, too–”

“–against your will, while I knew you were all, all  _emotionally vulnerable_ and shit. You just, whatever you need me to do, I’ll do it. Today. I’ll–I’ll move out of the apartment! I’ll transfer schools. I’ll unfollow you on Tumblr. You won’t ever have to see me again–”

Derek makes a noise in the back of his throat that Stiles has never heard before. “No. Don’t. Don’t do that.”

“No?” Stiles says, blinking.

Derek steps hesitatingly into the room, sinks down onto the edge of Stiles’ bed. “I– you don’t–” He fumbles with a loose thread on his cardigan, takes a deep breath. “You’ve got it all wrong. It wasn’t … I mean, I wanted it. With you. And if anyone’s sleazy, it’s me.”

The thought is so ridiculous that Stiles has to laugh.

“No, really. I am,” Derek insists earnestly. It’s totally not selling his case. “I, I pretty much stalked you throughout high school, ever since I saw you in freshman orientation.”

And suddenly Stiles isn’t laughing anymore. He’s pretty sure he’s forgotten how to breathe.

“I know we weren’t friends back then. I know it was creepy. But that’s how I felt. How I … how I still feel. And that’s why Jen broke things off with me. I told myself I’d moved on, but she could tell I hadn’t.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, and it feels like his entire perspective on the last twenty years of his life is shifting. He’s woken up in some weird, parallel universe where his unattainable, straight roommate is actually not straight and not unattainable, and not only that, but a universe where he’s been pining for Stiles even longer than Stiles has been pining for Derek. It’s going to take some time to sink in.

He reaches out a hand, tentatively, and cards his fingers through Derek’s hair. He doesn’t believe it, not really, not until Derek’s closing his eyes and leaning into Stiles’ touch.

It’s a weirdly tender moment, and suddenly he needs to be kissing Derek, like,  _right now_. So he does. 

It’s objectively kind of gross–neither of them has brushed their teeth yet–but subjectively, it’s the best kiss Stiles has ever had. Stiles climbs into Derek’s lap, and Derek falls back against a pile of Stiles’ graphic tees, and it’s a long time before either of them gets up again.

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilery warning: Derek and Stiles get drunk together and kiss a bit while they're not really sober enough to be thinking rationally. It doesn't go beyond kissing and hickeys. Stiles kind of freaks out about it the next day, until he finds out Derek wanted to kiss him after all.
> 
> This was first published on [my tumblr.](http://bibliosexualll.tumblr.com/)


End file.
